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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26972848">Sometimes I Lie To Myself</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Great_Deprussian/pseuds/The_Great_Deprussian'>The_Great_Deprussian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers, The Gravity of Nothing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adaptation of "The Gravity of Nothing", Angst, Child Molestatiion, Depression, Drugs, Eating Disorders, Hallucinations, Hospitals, Human AU, Implied Sexual Content, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Pedophilia, Psych Ward, Rape, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, more tags to come</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:07:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26972848</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Great_Deprussian/pseuds/The_Great_Deprussian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Lovino lies to himself. He knows he shouldn't.</p><p>But it's the only way to protect himself.</p><p>I don't own Hetalia or The Gravity of Nothing</p><p>Also, this is an adaptation. Not much is different from the original story. So keep that in mind. I don't even own this plot.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>South Italy &amp; France, South Italy/Spain (Hetalia), Spamano</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prolouge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Welcome you guys! Fair warning, there will be sensitive topics in here. Leave now if you can't handle that.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are three different parts to the human brain. Did you know that? Yeah, the forebrain, the midbrain, and the hindbrain. Each of those parts are separated into a bunch of other, tinier, sections that control the complex functions of the human body. I don't really know what the midbrain and hindbrain do. But I sure as heck know what the forebrain does.</p><p>Oh boy do I.</p><p>The frontal lobe’s a bastard. Well, the prefrontal cortex is. That’s the one that controls my reason and emotion. And guess what? It’s not always fair or balanced. It doesn’t always tell the truth. Or, what the logical world <em>perceives</em> as truth.</p><p>My prefrontal cortex likes to lie.</p><p>It tells me I’m terrible.</p><p>That I’m unloved.</p><p>That if I do ‘blank’ it will end with ‘blank.’</p><p>It makes me anxious.</p><p>It makes me paranoid.</p><p>Sometimes, it gives me anxiety so intense I can barely move. It makes something as “simple” as existing a battle. All I can do is breath. Try to survive. Even though I know they aren’t true, however, it’s hard to ignore the thoughts. </p><p>What it tells me isn’t true. I <em>know</em> that!</p><p>IN the back of my mind is a voice that whispers, “Ignore that crap!” But it’s tiny. And the prefrontal cortex is so big. It yells. Screeches. Harasses. Sneers. Cackles. Derides and demeans. It’s so effective at getting me to believe! If only until it gets me to act.</p><p>Act how? Whatever that sucker tells me I should do. Eat a whole tub of gelato. Yeah, that’ll help. Or buy a bunch of crap I don’t need. Or cutting. Or drinking myself senseless. Maybe downing a handful of pills will make the lies stop. Maybe silencing my brain can only be accomplished one way.</p><p>That’s what my brain tells me. A lot. Too much. That’s what it makes me think.</p><p>But not all thoughts are real. </p><p>Not all thoughts are true.</p><p>I try to counteract the thoughts. I ask questions like my therapist tells me to. Why am I thinking this? What stemmed this thought? Did I get in a fight? Am I hungry? Thirsty? Tired? Did I get enough exercise?</p><p>Really though, none of these questions matter. Because no one knows where mental illness comes from. There are pills. Treatment. Therapy. Of course there are. And often, it helps! But there are the lost causes. The ones that resist the treatment. And, sickeningly often, the brain wins.</p><p>It’s never pretty when that happens..</p><p>Hey, quick question. Have you ever seen a person at the bar talking to themselves? Or a homeless person? If you have, you’ve probably thought something like, “They must be insane!” or “Wonder what’s wrong with them.” Right?</p><p>Well, let me tell you. Probably, they’re talking to the voices in their head. The prefrontal cortex. Most likely, they just want the voices to stop. Because people like me don’t want to be crazy. People with mental health issues. They don’t want people to think poorly of them. And they don’t want people to think they aren’t trying to get better. Whatever that means. Because better varies.</p><p>What’s “better” for me may not be “better” for you. It’s like managing chronic pain. Or any chronic, not necessarily fatal, disease or illness. What level of crazy can you handle? What can you manage? How crazy can you be while still blending in with society?</p><p>I’m crazy.</p><p>That’s what I’ve been told.</p><p>That’s what I told myself. A lot.</p><p>Maybe that seems harsh to you. But it’s my life. I live with this. I can say what I want.</p><p>Sometimes, to keep my mental health under control, I have to be blunt. I have to say things that would make polite society cringe to hear me say to myself. I. Am. Crazy! It’s harsh, but it reminds me that my thoughts aren’t always true. They are trying to make me do things I shouldn’t. I’ve given into those urges before and ended up in the hospital. I don’t want to go back there. At least not as an inpatient. </p><p>Strapped to a bed.</p><p>Locked in a room.</p><p>You know what’s funny? The worst part isn’t the mental illness. It wasn’t the 93-day stay in the psych facility. It wasn’t having to tell a counselor my deepest, darkest secrets. It was leaving afterwards. The Plan. Following The Plan. Because The Plan wasn’t easy. I had to fight the voices in my head and the urges that were so much easier to give into than following The Plan. </p><p>The Plan is a struggle to stay afloat. A constant battle. It requires patience and strength and courage. Courage to not be okay. Courage to tell people you’re not okay. Courage to be okay with . . .not being okay.</p><p>You don’t know how hard it is. To look into the eyes of your friends or family or therapist and say “I need help.” Admitting that seems to ruin your dignity. And that’s the worst part.</p><p>It’s like digging a hole. Trying to get out of that hole. You dig and dig and dig and your pile gets higher and higher and higher. But no matter how much you dig and no matter how tall the pile gets it is never going to be tall enough. The lip of the hole is still out of reach. The only way out is by climbing. Clawing and scratching and kicking your way out. Fight everyday so you don’t fall back down the hole. And a person does this until they learn to handle their mental illness. ‘Til they become a pro . . .or get tired of trying.</p><p>I got tired of trying once. </p><p>No, that’s not right. I wasn’t tired. I was just frustrated.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Are you nervous?”</p>
<p>“I’m anxious. Not nervous. There’s a difference.”</p>
<p>Andrew, the leader of our merry band of messed-up teens tilted his head, “And how is that?”</p>
<p>I sighed and leaned back in my chair, “Normal people get nervous. They worry about normal things. If they are going to give a speech they get nervous about whether or not they will mess up or trip when they are walking up. Sometimes I worry about that too. But usually I get anxious. I think about how if I mess up everyone will hate me and think I am the worst person in the world. Even if I just speak and don’t mess up. That’s anxiety. Not nervousness.”</p>
<p>“That’s an interesting take.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Screw you sir.</em>
</p>
<p>“I guess so.” I shrugged, because that was all I could do.</p>
<p>Six people, including the counselor and me, sat in a circle at group. We were supposed to be sharing. I hated sharing. And when sharing meant forced group therapy, a dicey heating system, and pretending to enjoy watery hot chocolate with stale donuts, I really hated it.</p>
<p>“Has everyone met Lovino?” Andrew asked, smiling his too-white smile.</p>
<p>“Hi Lovnio.”</p>
<p>Everyone’s ‘hello’s’ were a cacophony of voices showing various stages of interest. Anywhere from uninterested to overly-enthusiastic. I was enthusiastically uninterested in participating in this group. I was crawling out of my skin. I was on the verge of tears. On the verge of screaming. On the verge of laughing. Of standing up and leaving without a word.</p>
<p>So naturally, I sat there, hands on my news and acting uninterested and calm. Ya’ know. Like ya’ do.</p>
<p>“Lovino, why don’t you tell everyone why you are here?” Andrew smiled again.</p>
<p>Gosh, I wish he’d stop talking.</p>
<p>“Tell us whatever you want Lovino.” Andrew continued, “Just talk. Say whatever you need to have heard.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Want to hear the screeching in my head?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>The crying?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>ShutupShutupShutupShutupShutup!</em>
</p>
<p>“I’m Lovino Vargas. Anxiety and depression.” I sighed, “Not into drugs. Not against them either. Alcohol is great. I’m here because-”</p>
<p>“They try diagnosing you with the bipolar yet?” A boy sitting across from me asked suddenly, scratching his ear, “Told me I caught it a few weeks ago.”</p>
<p><em>Bipolar disorder isn’t contagious you idiot,</em> I thought.</p>
<p>“Mhmm.” A skinny brunette who looked like she’d seen her share of meth pipes and sat next to the first guy spoke up, “They like to tell you that crap.”</p>
<p>I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes, “No.”</p>
<p>“BPD?” She asked next.</p>
<p>“Schizo?” The first guy asked.</p>
<p>
  <em>ShutupShutupShutupShutupShutup!</em>
</p>
<p>“Anxiety. Depression.” I repeat.</p>
<p>“You must have one of those fancy doctors then.” A pale boy added helpfully.</p>
<p>The only guy who hadn’t spoken up, some blond white guy, just watched me. </p>
<p>I didn’t take my hands off my knees. If I did, my fists would clench and my anxiety would spike. I really don’t want to cause a scene.</p>
<p>“Guys, let’s let Lovino say what he wants to say. Don’t interrupt him” Andrew chided gently.</p>
<p>“I’m done talking.”</p>
<p>Everyone kept looking at me.</p>
<p>“Lovi?”</p>
<p>“Don’t call me that.”</p>
<p>“Sorry. Lovino? Anything else you want to share?”</p>
<p>“Anxiety and depression.” I repeat once more.</p>
<p>“Something more?” Andrew urged.</p>
<p>Everyone stared at me some more and I stared at Andrew. Finally the blond kid spoke up with a scoff, “The rich kid doesn’t even need to be here!”</p>
<p>“Alfred,” Andrew scolded, “We need to be understanding of everyone’s problems.”</p>
<p>Ah. So Jerkwad Supreme’s name was Alfred.</p>
<p>“Then what the heck is he doing here!” The girl gestured to me, “I mean, we all have anxiety and depression! What else you got?”</p>
<p>Andrew frowned at her and then looked at me. His tone was gentle, “Lovino, anything else?”</p>
<p>I gave a long suffering sigh and then leaned forward, clasping my hands in front of me, “Alright fine. I’m going to tell you a story.”</p>
<p>Everyone sat forward as barely(or not at all) veiled excitement crossed their faces. Like I was an interesting movie. I ignored that and continued.</p>
<p>“First of all, I want to make a few things clear. I lie to myself. All the time. And, before I get to the story, I want to tell you a list of things I <em>do</em> know are true.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Things I know:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>1. Toni’s dead.<br/>2. I should be dead.<br/>3. Sometimes I lie to myself.<br/>4. Anxiety and depression are somethings I deal with on a daily basis.<br/>5. Boys get molested too.<br/>6. Guys can be victims of sexual assault.<br/>7. I’m never nervous but I am often anxious.<br/>8. I know the difference.<br/>9. Not all thoughts are true.<br/>10. Not all thoughts are real.<br/>11. Thoughts can be deceitful.<br/>12. Knowing all this helps me survive from when I wake up in the morning until I get back in bed at night.<br/>13. None of this stuff helps you better understand who I am.<br/>14. Because only one person knows who I am.<br/>15. And Toni’s dead.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>WARNING! Heavy topics start here. Okay? Okay.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*walks in tentativly**smol wave* H-hey guys!*holds up hands* I'msorryI'vebeengonesolongpleassedon'tkillme!!!!!!!!! I swear, I've been trying to get this chapter out! But it's long and my typing time is limited! I'm going to do my best to update every Wednesday tho! Again, I'm sorry guys!</p><p>Just an FYI, Italics are flashbacks.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Let me tell you a little about myself.</p><p>I’m 25 and work at a convenience store because I live with my brother and Nonno and have to pay to do so. I don’t care what people find out about me. I don’t care what they think. People, as a rule, can’t be trusted. Nor do I waste time trying to get to know them. They are confusing and disappointing and dishonest.</p><p>Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate people. Generally, people aren't bad because usually they aren’t against you. Usually. They don’t go out of their way to make other people miserable. Usually. Instead, they want to make their life better and don’t think about how their actions might affect others. That’s why I don’t get close to most people.</p><p>I have friends, sure. Plenty. But I don’t actively seek interaction with them. Lunch dates, small talk, unnecessary calls. None of that. I see why others do it but for me it’s just a way to kill time. I can do that other ways. I sort and organize. Write, do photography, compose poems. And think. Hylia, I think. My brain never stops. It’s like a hamster in a wheel. It goes and goes but never gets anywhere. That’s my brain. But I know that. I’m pretty self aware actually.</p><p>I walk, talk, breath. I crawl out of bed in the morning and get back in at night. Two times a day I pray I will never have to do either again. I’m not suicidal anymore. But I still think about how it would be to just not wake up. How I wouldn’t be sad. I really don’t feel a certain way about death. I’m alive but I wouldn’t mind dying.</p><p>A counselor told me I shouldn’t think that. It’s not healthy. I had to explain that I don’t want to be dead. Well, I don’t think about wanting to be dead. I just don’t care whether I live or die.</p><p>Once upon a time, two boys met on a bus. </p><p>I guess that’s where all stories start. Once upon a time. The thing is, ‘once upon a time’ is so great because it doesn’t tell you what came before. Doesn’t tell you about the pain and heartache. The joy and passion. The blood and guts and tears and sorrow. Happiness, lies, truth, and the  . . .life . . .that came before.</p><p>There’s a person. Their ‘once upon a time’ started here. It ends in a ‘happily ever after.’ My fairy tail started on a bus where I met Toni. But my ‘happily ever after’ became a ‘happily never after.’</p><p>That’s just how it is.</p><p>Not all stories get a happily ever after.</p><p>That’s not how it goes.</p><p>That’s not how it works.</p><p>So . . .once upon a time . . .</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Two boys met on a bus. It was early morning. The sun was bright. The weather was great. How all ‘once upon a time’s’ seem to start.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We were both from the same city. But we had never met. We went to different schools up until high school so we didn’t meet until this summer camp. That’s how we ended up on the same bus. The summer camp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The other boy’s name was Antonio. Toni. Neither of us were exceptional. We didn’t get amazing grades, were popular, or had an artistic talent that made us stand out. But we were fine kids. We were both friendly kids. Quick to joke. Loved our lives. He was poor. I was upper-middle class. We were both dark-haired and skinny, with gangly, awkward, early teen bodies.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I guess our averageness is what made us friends. Besides our socio-economic status of course. That, and we both had the ‘holier than thou’ mindset, per say. We both thought we were cool and mature. Far too old for a little kid summer camp. It wasn’t for almost high-schoolers.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As soon as we locked eyes, the first two on the bus, one in the back and one in the front, we knew we were kindred spirits. So, the boy at the front went to me in the back and asked if he could sit by me. Oh course, I granted his request with an outstretched hand and firm hand shake.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then we laughed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We knew how ridiculous it was to have a serious greeting between two thirteen-year-olds. As if we were going to conduct, or had just finished a business meeting. That was a great ice-breaker.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Did your parents make you come here, or did you decide yourself?” I remember Toni asking me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>An eye roll was the only response I needed to give.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“‘S what I thought.” Antonio chuckled.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I mean camp’s fine and all but it just seems so . . .”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Juvenile?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I laughed. Juvenile. It was funny coming from someone our age. Someone about to start high school but too young to look down on the other campers.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“First time?” I asked, watching the other kids crowd onto the bus.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yup. You?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Same. Never been before. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve spent more than a night from home.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Me too. I mean, unless I went on a vacation or something with my parents. Have you ever visited the Grand Canyon?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, when I was little.” I replied, “We went to Greece last year. You ever been?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Toni frowned at me. I raised an eyebrow, “What?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re a rich kid, huh.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“What? I mean, I don’t know . . .”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, you’re a rich kid!” Toni laughed and nudged me with his shoulder, “Bet you get to go to a lot of awesome places. Greece, Spain, The Caribbean. Shiz like that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I guess.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That’s great!” Toni grinned, “Wish I could do that! That’s freaking awesome dude!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I blushed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Good thing we have all summer for you to tell me about it!” Toni’s smile, if possible, widened. He was always smiling back then, “If the crats and hiking don’t suck our will to live out first!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I laughed loudly as the bus started up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m Antonio! You can call me Toni though!” The brunette held out his hand again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Lovino.” I replied, shaking Toni’s hand a second time, “But don’t call me Lovi. Please?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No promises!” Toni teased in a sing-song voice.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The ride went unnaturally fast. Well, we had to drive almost 2 hours to get to the camp by Lake Superior. But it only felt like minutes. The fact that hours felt like minutes wasn’t surprising, seeing as we were the best of friends when we arrived at camp. We knew each other’s favorite music, books, our opinions on girls(neither of us were into them but, shhh), etc.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When the bus unloaded, along with others, we were delighted to find we could request bunk mates. Of course, Toni and I immediately raced to the check-in table and announced that our want to be together and our request was approved. The counselor, a nice guy named Allen, thought it was excellent that Toni and I were getting along so well. Because that’s what counselors want. For kids to get along.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It makes their job, and life, a lot easier.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Led by another counselor, Toni and I brought our luggage to our cabin. The thing was small and a little dusty, but the open shutters provided plenty of life and gave a view of the lake a little ways off. There was a small bathroom and decent beds. It was fine. And, we had each other, so there wasn’t really much to complain about.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We spent the first day exploring, finding everything, and oing orientation. First night speeches, learning what the summer would entail, rules, the like. It seemed lame and completely juvenile. But each time we looked at each other, we smiled.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We were best friends.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We would endure camp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because we had each other.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We went back to the cabin after dinner and stayed up late telling ghost stories. And talking about things thirteen-year olds shouldn’t talk about. You know. As pre-teen and teenage boys are prone to do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Two boys met on a bus. Two boys quickly became friends. Two boys went to camp. They familiarized themselves with said camp. They were the very best of friends.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s important to this story.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because best friends rely on each other. They protect each other. They walk through hell together. When one is in danger, the other is supposed to jump in and fight, help the other survive.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But . . .sometimes . . .they don't. Flight wins over fight. Then one friend feels guilty, and the other one feels nothing. But they remain friends. Because they went through it together. They shared the memories and trauma. No one will understand one friend like the other.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I guess this story, besides the summer friendship, is about guilt. Anxiety. Depression. And survival. Because not everyone survives ‘once upon a time.’ The villain has to be defeated. For a happy ending. But sometimes, the villain wins. And the hero gets a ‘happily never after.’ If the hero survives. Or if there was even a hero to begin with. Not all stories have heroes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Some stories just have a villain and two people who were simply just in the wrong place, at the wrong time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So, Toni and I slept peacefully the first night. We dreamed of playful, happy dreams a child should dream about. Dreamed of a friendship. A friendship that would carry us through camp and high school. If nothing else, that first day assured us that we weren’t alone. That’s a comforting feeling, the feeling of not being alone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anyway, we woke up the next day. We felt like kings, because we had each other. That’s what good friendship does. Makes you feel like you can do anything because even if you fall it . . .</em>
</p><p>“Oh. My. Freaking. Gosh!” Alfred groaned, “Just tell the story like a normal human being!”</p><p>Andrew gave the blondie a look of disapproval.</p><p>“Fine.” I shrugged.</p><p>
  <em>“Do we really need to go to swimming lessons?” Toni asked at breakfast the next day.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I guess.” I shrugged.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I already know how to swim.” Toni frowned.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I shrugged again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We should go hike, or swim on our own or. . .anything but that shiz.” Toni suggested with a grin.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I smiled teasingly, “Ooh. Is Mister Goody-Two-Shoes trying to be a rebel?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Maaaaybe?” Toni’s grin turned mischievous, “I mean, we are at a summer camp. It’s vacation! We don’t need a schedule and stuff! We should do something fun!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah,” I nodded, “I mean, I can swim too. Why not?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So after breakfast, two boys snuck away from the group on the way to the lake. They walked away, past the trail, through trees, and ended up on a small beach on the lake. They stripped down and, for the first time ever, went skinny dipping.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It wasn’t salacious, or sexual. Just two boys being rebels. Helping each other be different than the good boys they usually were. We cemented our friendship in those few hours, naked and vulnerable and trusting. Later, we were able to dress and sneak back into our group on the way back to camp. We exchanged conspiratorial looks and grins as we marched with the other boys away from the lake once again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At lunch, we talked and shared more stories about ourselves. We were so engrossed in our conversation that we didn’t notice we were the last two in the dining hall. When we did notice, we didn’t care. We continued to talk. Only when a camp counselor, about mid-twenties, slid onto the bench beside me did we break off the conversation. We glanced at him, wondering if we needed to leave the hall.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You two seem to be getting along well!” Allan smiled, folding his arms on the table.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Toni and I looked at each other. I, the bolder of one between us, nodded, “Yes sir.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That’s nice.” Allen said.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes sir!” Toni and I responded in unison.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I noticed you two weren’t at swimming lessons today.” he held up a hand to halt our responses, “You know, swimming lessons are important. Much more important than skinny dipping without supervision at Long Beach.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We blushed at the thought of being caught. We hadn’t been the creative, slick rebels we thought we were.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We already know how to swim though sir!” Toni squeaked. I nodded wordlessly in agreement.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Allen frowned at us, obviously about to chastise us for arguing. Swimming lessons were important and going off on our own was against the rules. It would get out parents called. We would be punished when we got home for the summer. Then Allen laughed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Look,” He looked around to make sure no one was around, “I’m going to overlook it. You two swim at Long Beach. But you need to be careful. Use the buddy system and don’t do anything stupid. Okay?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We smiled brightly. Allen wasn’t as bad as we thought!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes sir!” I said for both of us, “Thank you!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Allen winked and stood up, “But I don’t know anything about this okay? So don’t get caught and don’t get hurt.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We gave a resounding ‘yes sir,’ which got us another wink, and Allen left us. Tonii and I left the hall in high spirits and went to join the other, playing kick ball all morning.</em>
</p><p>“So did Antonio drown while you were skinny dipping?” the girl blurted out, “Is that why you have anxiety and depression?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Alfred backed her up, “You two weren’t supposed to be out there and Toni drowned and now you feel like it’s your fault?”</p><p>I sighed, “No, he didn’t drown.”</p><p>Andrew looked at Alfred and the girl, giving them a stern look, but said nothing. Instead, he looked back at me. His eyes held the same question as the others.</p><p>“Toni didn’t drown.” I shrugged.</p><p>“You said Toni is dead!” Alfred threw his hands up.</p><p>“I did.” I nodded, “But his death wasn’t merciful, like drowning.”</p><p>“Oh my gosh!” The girl rolled her eyes, “This story is taking forever!”</p><p>I shrugged again and sat back. Story time was over. Everyone stared at me. I raised an eyebrow, “What?”</p><p>“Aren’t you going to finish?”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>
  <em>Three days a week, swim lessons were held. Sure, we could swim any day we wanted if we went with a counselor. And we did. We knew how to swim, so regular swimming sessions were fine. But being forced to stay with everyone for swim lessons, when that was for kids, we couldn’t handle it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So during swimming lessons, we went off to Long Beach and skinny dipped, just the two of us. It was our special time together as friends, away from everyone else. It was our time, and at our cabin at night, and in those places our friendship really bloomed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>After the first couple trips to Long Beach, we had company. Allen would often stop by to check on us as we swam. He never said anything, just leaned on a tree and smoked a cigarette, where only we would see it. He didn’t tell on us, so we didn’t call him out for smoking. When he was done, he would wave at us and go back to camp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Us and our camp leader developed a sort of camaraderie over those weeks. We guarded each other’s secrets, and no one got into trouble. It was exciting. Cool. It made Toni and me feel cool and like even bigger rebels than we were. Allen let us have our time together and we allowed Allen to have his moment away from camp. It was almost perfect.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>After three weeks, one Friday night, we were tired from activities. We crawled into bed, ready for our late night, secret conversations. That was the first time Allen entered our cabin at night. He made soothing ‘shh’ noises over the protests of one of us. That night, Allen crawled in one of our beds while the other cowered in his bed, crying silently as he listened to the muffled protests of his friend, too scared to run for help. Too afraid to help his friends. So . . .it just . . .happened.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That was the first time.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The lights went out in the community center again, the heat groaning. Then the heat stopped and we were left in the dark as we sat in a circle. I let my head drop, exhaling irritatedly. Everyone watched me with wide eyes and I looked up to stare back.</p>
<p>“So Allen . . .” Alfred began slowly.</p>
<p>“The heat and lights are out. Can we go home now?” I interrupted simply. </p>
<p>Everyone stared at me in horror as I kept my hands on my lap, waiting to be dismissed. Andrew stared at me, just as horrified as the other attendees. I waited. I could feel my anxiety welling up. I felt like my heart was being pulled to my feet. Still, I waited. This wasn’t the first time I had to ignore my anxiety and depression. I was getting pretty good at it.</p>
<p>“Y-yes.” Andrew shook his head, losing his gape-mouthed expression, “Group is over for the day.”</p>
<p>Alfred and the girl looked about to argue. Beg to hear more of the story. Then, seeming to decide on something, they closed their mouths. I stood, and walked directly to the front doors. Walking outside, away from the community center, I reached into my pocket and pulled some cigarettes. I took one out, along with a lighter. As I put the cigarette to my lips and lit it, my hand wanted to shake. I didn’t allow it. I took a long drag.</p>
<p>I walked to one of the long, brick planters that actually had nothing planted in it. I tucked the lighter back into the empty space in the cigarette box and put the pack in my pocket as I exhaled smoke.</p>
<p>“Can I bum one of those?”</p>
<p>I looked over to find a guy standing there. I realized he was the only one who hadn’t said anything at group. He was tall, scrawny, and lanky. His long sleeved shirt was fashionable, but baggy on him. His jeans were barely held up by a tight belt. His long blond hair was shoulder-length and wavy and his blue eyes were hollow. The clothes, and him, were washed and clean, but the bagginess made him look dirty.</p>
<p>“How old are you?” I snorted, looking away from him at the street.</p>
<p>“Twenty.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe you.” </p>
<p>“What else don’t you believe?” He asked.</p>
<p>I took out my pack and held it out without looking at him, “Take as many as you want.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Take your cigarettes and go.</em>
</p>
<p>He took the pack, grabbed one cigarette, lit it, and gave me back the pack. I put it back in my pocket. The other attendees walked out, talking loudly, glanced at us, then continued on their way. </p>
<p>“Allen killed Toni?” The guy who bummed the cigarette asked.</p>
<p>“I’m trying to have quiet time here.” I sighed.</p>
<p>“I bet you don’t get a lot of quiet time.” The guy said, “I bet your brain talks a lot, huh.”</p>
<p>I take a drag on my cigarette and decide to ignore the kid.</p>
<p>“I have anxiety too.” He said, “My thoughts go like, 90 to nothing most of the time. I can’t stop myself from thinking no matter how hard I try. Sometimes it’s so bad I can’t even sleep.”</p>
<p>I glanced at him, “You don’t have anxiety. You have a drug problem. Now you’re suffering the effects of that.”</p>
<p>He frowned.</p>
<p>“When you do meth long-term, but not so long you suffer physical effects, you stop mentally maturing.” I take another drag, “When you’re clean your brain’ll start catching up. You learn the skills you should have at your age-which isn’t twenty-and you’ll put on some weight. Maybe you even won’t look like a scarecrow anymore.”</p>
<p>The kid swallowed hard.</p>
<p>“Now . . .I want to be alone.” I nodded, “Please.”</p>
<p>“I-I’m twenty.” He stammered, “I just look young and . . .I’m small, I guess.”</p>
<p>“Then it was a great choice to do meth, kid.” I said dryly.</p>
<p>He didn’t  say anything.</p>
<p>“Look, dude-” I sighed, but didn’t look at him, “I don’t care what you’ve done, whether you lied about your age. Please just leave me alone.”</p>
<p>For a little while, we sat there. The kid smoked, I ignored the kid and hoped he would go away.</p>
<p>“Did Allen kill Toni?” He asked again.</p>
<p>“Why the heck to you care?” I turned to snap at him.</p>
<p>He jerked back slightly, eyes wide.</p>
<p>Scared the recovering meth-head.</p>
<p>Points for Lovino.</p>
<p>“Because I want to know how the story ends.” His voice was small, like he wanted to run away but didn’t.</p>
<p>“You're looking at the story’s end, kid.” I said tiredly, but didn’t elaborate. I didn’t need to.</p>
<p>The kid stared at me, “You said all ‘once upon a times’ end with ‘happily ever after.’”</p>
<p>“I said I got a ‘happily <em>never</em> after,’ kid.” I said evenly, “Who knows. Maybe yours will be different. You want to stay sober, right. Someone to assure you that if you do everything you need to, you’ll get a happily ever after?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. I guess.” He said meekly.</p>
<p>“Well, come back a different day.” I snub my cigarette, “Today, you won’t get the answer you want.”</p>
<p>“Did Allen kill Toni?” He asked as a familiar car pulled into the parking lot.</p>
<p>I didn’t answer, just stood and shoved the cigarette butt in my pocket. When the car reached the curb, I grabbed the handle and pulled it open. I sat down in the passenger seat and closed the door. As I put on the seat belt, the cas was pulling away, leaving the inquisitive kid behind. </p>
<p>“Did you have fun?” Nonno asked.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” I sighed, “That’s what it was, Nonno. Fun.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’d think it would be difficult for me to hold a job, especially with my anxiety and depression. With how deeply they affect me. But actually, working the night shift at a nearby convenience store, a few blocks away from my house, is perfect for me. In my neighborhood, the store was kinda an oddity because it is in a more upscale part of the city. That sounds like a rich, white jerkwad thing to say but it’s true. No point skirting around the truth. A convenience store within a few blocks of my house isn’t something one would expect to see. It’s clean and well-kept, usually used by people within a few blocks radius and people driving through.</p>
<p>So, working the night shift, I don’t deal with that many people. Some locals stop by for a soda,or late-night snack. Or people stop for gas, but they almost always pay at the pump so I don’t have to deal with them. So, as far as jobs for people with anxiety, it’s great. As for depression . . .sometimes it can get lonely and I have time to think too much. But when that happens I just clean. Excessively. Like, hands and knees, scrubbing the baseboards cleaning.</p>
<p>Nonno and Feliciano think I should be in college, working towards a ‘real career.’ Nonno, mostly. I think it’s disappointing to him that I am working at a convenience store and not pursuing an education, then getting a good job. But I’ve barely been in therapy a year. My counselors and psychiatrist both agree I need more time. And I swear that’s not just me trying to avoid life, with their help. I’m really not a completely functioning human being.</p>
<p>I can pretend to ignore my anxiety.</p>
<p>Ignore depression.</p>
<p>But that only works for so long until I’m pushed into a full metal health crisis. Then I end up doing things that won’t help me at all. I can manage when I go to group, or an appointment. I can manage okay during work. I can manage my feelings, thoughts, and behaviors.</p>
<p>I can’t manage, however, when I am constantly surrounded by stimuli. Though, what affects me is varied and unusual. The stimuli you’d expect are there. Crowds, loud noises, people touching me and talking too much. Dangerous situations. Sudden movements and noises.</p>
<p>What’s weird is what <em>doesn’t</em> affect my anxiety. Once, at work not even last week, I was robbed at a gunpoint. Some guy I’d never seen before came to the register at 2 o’clock and held a gun to my head. I gave him the money, calm as could be, and he left. Then I hit the silent alarm and called 911. And I just went back to cleaning until the police arrived. I felt nothing. Because the only danger was dying.</p>
<p>That doesn't make me anxious.</p>
<p>It would be a release.</p>
<p>You can’t be anxious, crawling out of your skin, if you’re dead, right? It would be like a permanent sleep.</p>
<p>I don’t want to die, I don’t think.</p>
<p>But I don’t care if I do. I don’t think.</p>
<p>In a flight or fight situation, I’m more of a shrugger. Let’s wait it out and take whatever happens. At least when the situation will simply end in life or death. Neither scareds me. So I don’t worry about getting shot in the head and dying.</p>
<p>It’s just sleep. But permanent.</p>
<p>One of the best things about my job is that the manager and owner leave me alone. They let me eat whatever I want as long as I pay. Not that I eat much, anyway. They don’t micromanage me or ask too many questions. Generally, as long as I do my work well and don’t complain, they leave me alone. Maybe the odd ‘hello’ or ‘good morning.’ Other than that, they let me do my thing.</p>
<p>I appreciate that.</p>
<p>There are so many people in the world who don’t understand that some of us spend our entire existence just trying to survive. We don’t have the energy to deal with their crap. I don’t have energy to listen to my coworker gripe about how her boyfriend forgot their two week anniversary. I don’t care about your new grandchild or cat. I don’t care how your holiday was. I don’t care why a coworker wants me to cover their shift. As long as it’s a night shift, I’ll take it. Now leave me alone.</p>
<p>That’s all I need from my work. I go in, do my job, get my paycheck, and leave. I need to pay my phone bill and buy cigarettes, groceries, and have money to give Nonno so I can live with him. Other than that. I don’t need much. Not until my mental health issues are manageable in most situations.</p>
<p>I’m really trying.</p>
<p>I promise.</p>
<p>Sometimes I feel like I’m doing okay and feel proud of myself, but those moments are few and far between. Other times I feel like I am the worst person to ever exist and can’t imagine why anyone would ever care about me. I know not all thoughts are true, and that they can be deceitful.</p>
<p>That doesn’t help when I’m in a ‘nobody likes you’ moment. Well, it doesn’t stop the thoughts. But it does help me manage them. Mostly. When a person deals with anxiety and depression, even if they know something’s not true, they have to remind themselves of that more times than there are minutes in order to stay functional.</p>
<p>
  <em>No one likes you.</em>
</p>
<p>It’s a powerful thought.</p>
<p>It has legs.</p>
<p>My brain only has to think it once, then it’s off and invading every crevice of my brain, convincing me I’m the worst. I think we all get a turn at being the worst. But my brain convinces me that I’m the worst all the time. Child molesters and mass murderers and perfume snipers? They’re nothing compared to how horrible I am. </p>
<p>Do you know how crazy that is?</p>
<p>Because I do.</p>
<p>That doesn’t help either.</p>
<p>Knowing I’m crazy isn’t completely unhelpful. It helps me remind myself not all thoughts are true. Not all thoughts are real. I’m crazy. It’s one of my crosses to bear in life and there’s nothing I can do about it. I will never not be crazy. Depression and anxiety will be a lifelong problem I’ll have to deal with everyday. It may become easier to manage. But it will never completely go away. Ever. And that’s the worst thought of all. Because it is undeniably true.</p>
<p>I am crazy. </p>
<p>I will be crazy.</p>
<p>That will never change.</p>
<p>Fact.</p>
<p>Managing my anxiety and depression was easier when Toni was alive and would come to the convenience store in the middle of the night to keep me company. To remind me someone didn’t think I was the absolute worst, even if I didn’t deserve to have someone treat me kindly. Because I'm the worst. Remember?</p>
<p>Toni would come after midnight and sit behind the counter with me and talk to me about the things that were bothering me. Then he’d explain why each thought wasn’t true. Toni was thoughtful that way. He was too kind to me. He had his own problems to deal with, but he still treated mine as paramount.</p>
<p>Half-true.</p>
<p>Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t. But to Toni, the best friend I’ve ever had, taking care of me was important. Making sure I knew someone cared about me was important. Making sure I knew someone cared about me was important. Things were so much better when Toni was alive and around. But Toni is dead.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, that’s true too.</p>
<p>Toni had been dead for over a year.</p>
<p>That wasn’t my brain deceiving me or lying. The best friend I’d ever had was dead and he would never come to talk to me again. Ever. And that thought made me anxious more than anything else. It sends me into a well of depression deeper than anything else. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to fight that thought. Because it wasn’t just a thought. It was simply a truth I had to accept.</p>
<p>Thoughts are tough.</p>
<p>The truth is freaking impossible.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A psychiatrist, the first one I had after Toni died, asked me how I felt about Toni’s death. How I felt about Allen.</p>
<p>What a small question.</p>
<p>How do I feel? How do I ever feel?</p>
<p>That’s like telling me to reach into a jar of sand and extract a single, particular grain. It’s the needle in the haystack. My feelings are so woven and intertwined that if I;m being honest, I’m not sure which emotion I am feeling from moment to moment.</p>
<p>I feel everything and nothing. And that nothing has a pull. It has weight. It feels like I grabbed onto a cinderblock and jumped into a lake. Each moment of the day, I feel like I’m being held down by the weight of the nothingness.</p>
<p>Why is Toni dead?</p>
<p>Why am I not?</p>
<p>What did Toni feel before he died?</p>
<p>Did he feel the weight of nothingness?</p>
<p>Did it drag him down?</p>
<p>Did he feel that pull and submit to it? Give himself over to the nothingness? Relinquish his power? That’s the thing about nothingness - it’s persistent. It doesn’t give up. From moment to moment it picks and picks and pulls and pulls until you don’t know how you'll ever shake it off and kick back to the surface. Nothingness . . .feels a lot like hopelessness.</p>
<p>You know how a satellite orbiting Earth would come crashing down if it ever stopped Moving?</p>
<p>Did Toni stop moving? Was Toni a satellite orbiting nothingness and suddenly, he forgot to keep moving and that was when the gravity of all that nothing got to him? Will that happen to me?</p>
<p>I spend a lot of time thinking about that - especially when my anxiety is at its peak. Maybe I don’t feel suicidal now, even if I couldn’t care less if I died, but maybe that will change. Will I wake up one day and see a bottle of pills or a knife or a gas oven or a fast bus . . .will the nothingness pull me down for good?</p>
<p>Did Allen and  . . .<em>everything</em> . . .make Toni feel that gravity in the moments leading up to his death?</p>
<p>One thing is certain.</p>
<p>
  <em>Toni fought until the final moments. So . . .I will not stop fighting.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ever.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Nothingness will have to pull harder than me.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But . . .</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But it’s difficult, sometimes.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It’ll just be our secret, right?” Toni whispered to me as he showed me his arm, “You won’t say anything?”</p><p>Anguish settled in my gut as I scrutinized the length of his forearm as he held his shirt sleeve up and I took in the various shades of bruises decorating it. Toni was chewing his lip as I looked at his arm, fear and hesitation clouding his face.</p><p>I reached out and my fingertips brushed his skin. I didn’t push down, knowing the bruises had to hurt, but I needed to feel them for myself. I wanted to feel his skin beneath my fingers, see if I could feel the pain and humiliation that surely radiated from his shame. Maybe my touch could take some of that away from my best friend. Make him feel a little more whole. Make him feel a little less responsible for everything.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>My voice made me feel shame. It was small. Weak.</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>Toni’s voice was hollow.</p><p>Shame has a flavor. I wondered what it tasted like to Toni in that moment. What did his emotions feel like in his mouth? What texture? What taste? Toni stared at my fingers as they traveled the length of his forearm, eyes begging me for . . .<em>anything.</em> To make him feel more whole. To make him feel less weird. Less vulnerable.</p><p>‘Toni . . .”</p><p>“It is what it is.” He pushed his sleeves down, pushing my fingers away in the process.</p><p>My hands rested at my sides as I knelt and Toni sat in lotus position in front of me. He shoved his hands in his lap, hiding them from my sight. The weight of this moment, from seeing those blues and yellows and purples and browns, made me physically sink, mimicking Toni’s position. Toni’s eyes lowered and he stared at the infinity of space between us as I did my best not to cry. I didn’t know how to cross that distance, to reach out and pull him back from the abyss he was falling down.</p><p>“I’m so sorry Toni.” I breathed out.</p><p>“You didn’t do this.” He looked up, voice sharp and eyes warning, “Stop apologizing for everything.”</p><p>“I know I didn’t do it.” I snapped back.</p><p>That’s the thing about two people - and only two - who experienced what we experienced together. One is the victim and the other feels like they should have been the victim. One feels guilty. The other feels . . .everything. Both people don’t know if they hate or love each other for it.</p><p>Does the trauma bring them closer together, feel more protective of each other, more attentive to the other’s needs? Or does it create an infinity of space between them that isn’t actually physical? Or does it do everything? Does trauma of that magnitude create a coin with one side of hate and the other of love?</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want me to do?” I asked, voice pleading.</p><p>“I want you to tell me that it didn’t happen.” Toni’s voice was tight, holding back a sob I knew his body wanted to expel, “I want you to tell me everything will be okay. I want you to tell me that you love me.”</p><p>“I love you.” I said.</p><p>“I love you too.” He responded.</p><p>“It didn’t happen. Everything will be okay.” I added.</p><p>“Liar.” His head rose in defiance.</p><p>“I know,” I nodded slowly, “But I do love you.”</p><p>“What can make this better Lovi?” Toni whispered his question into that mass of infinity.</p><p>“I don’t like it when you do this.”</p><p>“I don’t like it when I do this either.”</p><p>“I’m tired of feeling everything.” His voice was quiet as we sat across from each other on his bedroom floor, in the early hours of the morning, “I’m tired of feeling like . . .I’m just tired of feeling.”</p><p>I didn’t know what to say to that.</p><p>“What do you feel?” Toni looked at me, tears threatening to fall.</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“Do you think . . .if Allen goes to jail it will be like a magic spell or potion?” He asked, “Will it make everything better?”</p><p>I shrugged.</p><p>“What if he died?”</p><p>I stared at him.</p><p>“What if someone bashed his head in until you couldn’t even recognize him as a human anymore?”</p><p>“Don’t say that Toni.” I shook my head, “Allen being murdered is not the way to-”</p><p>“I’M F*CKIN’ ANGRY!” Toni yelled, unconcerned about his sleeping parents.</p><p>They’d had a hard day. Mine and Toni’s hadn’t been easily either. But we were still awake. We didn’t have the luxury of drifting off to sleep. Because this was our trauma.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“You don’t know how angry I am Lovi.” He seethed, “If I could I would wrap my hands around his throat and look him in the eye and choke the freaking life out of him. I would make him hurt. I would make him feel everything we feel.”</p><p>“Toni . . .”</p><p>“I would make him sorrier than he’s ever been in his life, Lovi.” Toni growled, “And right before he died I would ask the bastard how everything feels. But he’ll never get to answer. I would want him to go to freaking Hell with that answer on his stupid tounge. I would want him to live with that in his final moments and the rest of eternity. I want him dead.”</p><p>What does one say to that?</p><p>“And I wouldn’t feel bad for one second either.” Toni spat, “So don’t go telling me how that would make me just as bad as him. I don’t want to hear that shiz from you. I don’t want you to say that Allen’s a monster and he’s going to jail and that’s justice.”</p><p>“Because it’s not, Lovi. It’s not anything. It’s not even close to what he deserves. That bastard deserves to be raped, beaten, his freaking eyes gouged out, then stomped to death slowly. I want him to have . . .”</p><p>No sound came from me, but tears poured from my eyes as I stared at my friend, sitting there with his fists clenched in his lap and spewing venom. Toni saw the first tears fall and his expression changed immediately. His anger morphed into sorrow and regret as I started to cry and he reached out to pull me to him.</p><p>“Lovi.” He sighed, “Oh, Lovi, I’m so sorry love. I didn’t mean to . . .Hylia, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“I don’t know anything anymore Toni.” I breathed into his neck as he held me against him, “I can’t feel anything anymore. I don’t know how to help you. I want to take all this away from you so bad! I don’t even know where to begin.”</p><p>“Hey.” Toni took my face in his hands and made me look at him, my face inches from his, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I’ll stop, okay?”</p><p>He kissed me slowly and I kissed him back. His lips slid from mine and he kissed my cheeks, where my tears trailed down, kissed my forehead, then found my lips again. I wrapped my arms around him and held him as we kissed each other, there on his bedroom floor.</p><p>“Do you want to . . .” Toni whispered against my mouth, eyes closed.</p><p>I shrugged.</p><p>“Will it make you feel better?” He whispered again.</p><p>“I don’t know.” I shook my head.</p><p>“Should we just see what happens?” He asked.</p><p>I nodded, our noses rubbing together with the movement. Toni opened his eyes to make sure I was serious, then leaned down to kiss me, our eyes open this time. Gently, in an effort to bring comfort to each other, the two of us kissed and stared into each other’s souls. I pulled away from Toni and gently took his arm in my hands. My eyes didn’t leave Toni’s as I pushed his sleeve up again. And, even as I kissed his hand, the inside of his wrist, the inside of his forearm, up the entire length of his bruised and battered arm, I kept my eyes on him.</p><p>Toni shivered as my eyes left his and I pulled his shirt over his head. Then I pushed him back gently, coming to kneel over him. And my lips found every bruise on his arms, chest, and stomach I could see. Later, we laid on his bedroom floor, my head on his chest and his arms around my waist. I kissed his jaw and thought about drifting off as I gave him a hug, my eyes hot with tears.</p><p>“Toni,” I whispered, “I need to tell you something.”</p><p>“What is it?” he whispered back.</p><p>And I told a truth.</p><p>A truth that did more damage than a lie ever would.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*puts up hands* Hold up. Don't go getting your panties all in a bunch. The 'truth' won't be revealed in the next chapter or the next or the next or anytime soon. You shall have to deduce what it was on your own. At the end of the story I will clear up any and all confusions, but for now, you have a lump of tissue or whatever in your head. I suggest you use it. </p><p>Okay, with that all cleared up, I will take my leave. *bows* Good day.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heyo! I have returned from my holiday break to continue this story! Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Toni’s grave was just some dirt that had once been dug up, a coffin thrown in, then refilled. It meant nothing to me. But I went and sat there every week before group and hoped it would be the day I would feel Toni with me again. Maybe if I sat there by his grave and thought of him I would get some sign he’s nearby. But every time I sit at his grave site, I feel nothing.</p><p>Something adults never tell you when you are growing up is that death is just an end. Sure, many of us are religious and/or spiritual and are taught that death is just the beginning of eternal life with our Savior or God or . . .whatever. Maybe it’s not the final destination, death. But it’s the end for those left behind. There’s no more Madre or Padre or fratello or sorella or cugino or whomever it is you lost. And there’s no more Toni for me. He became a part of that nothing. That gaping hole in my chest that could never be filled like his grave had been.</p><p>I often wondered, as I sat there, what was it like down there for my friend's body. What did it look like? It hadn’t been too long since he’d been buried, and with the way a body is embalmed, maybe the body still looked like Toni? Maybe if the coffin was pulled out and the lid removed I could see the Toni-body and I would feel something. Maybe I would feel like Toni wasn’t as gone as he really was.</p><p>They said Toni had fought for his life in the end.</p><p>I wanted to believe that.</p><p>I <em>really</em> wanted to believe that.</p><p>I wanted to believe that he had found the strength and courage to come back to himself, and hadn’t been the shell of a human being he had turned into towards the end of his life. Hopefully, in those few moments before he died, he knew who he was again. Before Allen changed his life. I hope he found warmth and strength and everything Toni-like, that had made me want to be his best friend when I met him. And I hope he looked Death in the eye and told him to go screw himself. Even if he wasn’t strong enough to survive, I hope he didn’t die feeling weak.</p><p>But, more than anything, I hope he didn’t feel alone.</p><p> I hope he didn’t feel like I hadn’t loved him.</p><p>Toni and I had sex.</p><p>A lot.</p><p>But it wasn’t completely because we were in love or sexually attracted to each other. I mean, there was that too. But it also came from a need for solace and to be taken away from the inertia only a trauma like ours can cause.</p><p>Almost all of our sexual encounters were predicated on an emotional or mental breakdown on Toni’s part. Sometimes mine, I suppose. But I didn’t break down like Toni did. Toni could go from calm and collected and even apathetic, to murderous and raging in a matter of seconds. Toni could do one-eighty like nobody's business.</p><p>And those moments tore me to shreds.</p><p>I had been torn apart so many times, on so many occasions, I couldn't even find all the pieces anymore. I felt I would never be whole again from all those moments of near absolute destruction. Even if I could sit on Toni’s grave and sense him in a way, would it really change that fact? How long would I feel whole again? A moment? An hour? Maybe even a whole day?</p><p>A whole day of feeling complete. I would give almost anything to feel that. But buried beneath that nothingness, I know once that feeling went away I’d be worse than I was before. What’s the point of feeling comfort and wholeness if it’s the calm before the storm?</p><p>The calm.</p><p>That’s one thing I did feel at Toni’s grave. I felt peace. Almost as if I could disconnect from the world, Toni’s grave felt insulated from everything around me. The constant ache of the nothingness was lessened when I sat there and tried to feel some sense of my now dead friend.</p><p>At Toni’s grave, I never felt the need to pretend I was fine or that I was okay and I wasn’t constantly being dragged down by the nothing.</p><p>I didn’t have to be fine for Nonno’s sake, or Toni’s parents, my group, my boss, my brother. I could take a break. I could break down if I wanted to, though I never did. I could tell Toni how much I missed him and how I wished I could take away all his pain and suffering. How he’d been the best and truest friend I’d ever had. How I wish . . .how I wish we had never been friends.</p><p>Because being friends with me led to his death. </p><p>That’s my secret.</p><p>Well, I guess it’s Toni’s secret too.</p><p>Only three people know the truth of why Toni’s dead, and only I’m alive out of those three. And I will take that secret to my grave. Because anyone who knew would be torn to shreds by it too. There was no reason anyone should be weighed down by the gravity of a secret like that. </p><p>I knew why Toni’s dead. Everyone assumed they knew why. But sometimes people lie. And sometimes when they start lying . . .they can’t stop. Sometimes I lie to myself. So I understand why Toni chose to lie as well. It’s not always the desire to hide the truth, lying. Sometimes it’s the only way we can survive.</p><p>Sometimes, lying is the only way to start accepting the truth.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay. So. In case you like listening to music while reading, I have finally compiled a playlist of Nightcore music that sets to mood right <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtzj9b2_uXfq-KFRhoHKetGEOnxT30UyU">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andrew held the girl's hand, whose name I had just learned, was Natalie, as she told about the first time she smoked meth. I couldn’t figure out the kids in this group. As I listened to them, it was apparent they didn’t come from bad situations. None of them were beaten, or molested. I tried really hard not to be judgmental! Really! I really <em>really</em> did try! But these kids were a bunch of arses!</p><p>Look, I get I’m a white guy that comes from a higher socio-economic class than the other kids here. But these kids were just arses that did drugs because . . .actually, I couldn’t figure out why. None of them had a reason they decided to shoot up heroin or pick up a meth pipe. Most of their stories were pretty bland and ended with them smoking meth for the first time. You can figure out where those stories end. I was the only one who hadn’t been ordered by a judge to attend this group, after all.</p><p>I hated group therapy.</p><p>I truly hated it.</p><p>Even if the other kids here - I don’t know why I still alluded to myself as a kid when I’m almost twenty-one - were total arses, I would have hated the class. And maybe they weren’t arses, but kids with mental health problems. But I just wanted to be alone. I wanted to feel my nothingness on my own. It’s kinda hard to be alone with our thoughts when a meth-head is crying about being caught and forced to go to therapy or jail. I mean, you did it to yourself, right?</p><p>
  <em>Stop being such a prick.</em>
</p><p>Hylia, I’m such an arse.</p><p>I lie and these kids do drugs. Both are bad.</p><p>Why judge other people for their shortcomings.?</p><p>So, I listened to Andrew lead group and each person talked about whatever they wanted to share. Some of it made no sense, making me think some of them weren’t handling sobriety well. But some were lucid, just annoying. When it came to the kid who bugged me last session, my eyes rolled further back into my head. Well, when he was called upon by Andrew.</p><p>But when he started to speak, I was surprised by his candor.</p><p>“I started smoking meth about a year ago.” He said simply, “It was something to do.”</p><p>“What made you use drugs as an escape, Francis?” Andrew had asked, nodding, encouraging the kid - Francis - to continue.</p><p>He shrugged, “Boredom, I guess.”</p><p>That, I understood. Because it was genuine.</p><p>“Just . . .boredom?”</p><p>The kid rolled his shoulders, “I graduated from high school and had the summer until college started, and it was just my parents and me. Some friends asked me if I wanted to do it. So I did. And it, I don’t know, just took hold of me I guess. Ended up going to college. Getting into trouble, going to court and now I’m here. I haven’t used in two months.</p><p>“Well, that’s good.” Andrew frowned as he nodded.</p><p>Andrew was probably just as bored as I was. He was probably used to kids who were molested or beaten or who’s parents were prostitutes or pimps or a million other traumatic childhood events. These kids, drug problems aside, were boring as could be. It seemed like boredom or a need for attention, or just being brats were the underlying causes for their drug use.</p><p>Moment of honesty, I have never used drugs. I have nothing against them, but I’ve also never felt the need to try using them. Other than my medication, I’ve never taken anything to alter my mind. Toni and I experimented with alcohol once or twice, but he enjoyed it more than I did. Mostly because it helped him forget his sorrows the few times we actually drank it. But neither of us ever got addicted to the stuff. It was hard for me to get addicted to things when my favorite drug was nothingness. That stuff really jacked me up.</p><p>Drugs and alcohol were easy for me. Maybe shooting something into my veins took a little courage and adrenaline. But dealing with the feeling of the nothing entirely sober was a freaking blood sport. To go through each day raw and exposed and bleeding from an invisible wound, yet still crawling out of bed every morning? That was a high no drug could match. Sure, maybe you’ve shot yourself up with heroin. But have you ever tried to drag yourself out of bed when you’re so empty you aren’t even sure you’re alive anymore? That’s an experience.</p><p>Then again, I lie to myself often.</p><p>“Lovino?” Andrew turned to me with one last comforting pat to Natalie’s hand.</p><p>I sat up a little and looked at him across our little circle of misfits.</p><p>“What do you want to share today?” He asked.</p><p>Shrugging, I replied, “Same as always. Anxiety and depression. Nothing new.”</p><p>“How are you managing?”</p><p>“Minute to minute.”</p><p>“Have you seen your psychiatrist or doctor since last group?”</p><p>“No.” I did my best not to scoff, “I only see them once or twice a month.”</p><p>“You ain’t got insurance?” Natalie asked.</p><p>“I have insurance.”</p><p>“They only pay for so many visits or something?” Alfred asked.</p><p>“I just see them once or twice a month.” I sighed.</p><p>“Okay.” Andrew interrupted to stop the cross-talking, “How are you doing with medication, any therapy . . .?”</p><p>“Um, I do CBT and my medications are okay I guess.” I replied blandly, “I take Xanax and Paxil. They seem to do the job.”</p><p>“Any side effects?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“That’s good.” He nodded, still frowning, “Anything else?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Andrew studied me for several moments before turning away, “I guess we can conclude group then folks. Unless there is anything . . .yes Francis?”</p><p>Francis had raised his hands as if we were in class.</p><p>“U-Um, are you going to tell us more of your story?” Francis looked at me uncertainly, “More about Toni and Allen and . . .everything?”</p><p>Natalie and Allen chimed in, in agreement. I glared at Francis. Well, mentaly I did. My face didn’t change but I did stare at him insanely. He seemed to shrink further into his seat, which was impressive seeing as we were sitting in plastic folding chairs. Andrew didn’t reprimand any of them Obviously I wasn’t just being goaded by the other attendees, but also by the leader of this misfit group.</p><p>“I told the story.” My voice was even.</p><p>“You said Toni died.” Alfred jumped in, “Did Allen rape him to death or something?”</p><p>Andrew spoke up and reprimanded Alfred. My face stayed blank.</p><p>“What happened to Toni?” Natalie picked up the conversation, “I mean, we know Allen, like, molested and stuff. But you said that was the first time. So something bigger must’ve happened to Toni since he’s dead. He didn’t die the night Allen molested him.”</p><p>“Nothing happened to Toni.”</p><p>That wasn’t a lie.</p><p>“But he’s dead.” Francis chewed his lip, “So . . .he didn’t just wake up dead on day, right?”</p><p>“No.” I frowned, “Toni didn’t die of natural causes, if that’s what you mean.”</p><p>“Mother of Hera!” Alfred groaned, “What is it then.”</p><p>“I’m not here because of Toni.” I leaned back in my chair, “I’m here because of my anxiety and depression.”</p><p>“Because of what happened to Toni.” Natalie added quickly.</p><p>“You are putting words in my mouth.” I shook my head.</p><p>“What the hell happened to Toni!” Alfred yelled in frustration.</p><p>“Nothing happened to Toni, you freaking idiots!” I yelled back, “I told you the story and you know Toni’s dead! What the heck do you want from me?!”</p><p>Everyone say back in their chairs, eye wide as I sat forward in mine and snarled at all of them - even Andrew. Finally, I eased back and looked at Andrew. </p><p>“Is group over now?”</p><p>“Are you sure there isn’t anything else you want to talk about Lovino?” Andrew asked gently as everyone became a little less gape-mouthed, “Do you want to talk about how you feel about Toni’s death?”</p><p>I couldn’t help myself. I rolled my eyes and slumped back in my seat, “I’m not here to entertain all of you. I feel nothing. Toni’s death makes me feel nothing.”</p><p>“That’s cold.” Alfred shook his head.</p><p>My head snapped to the side to look at him.</p><p>“You don’t know the first thing about me kid,” I snarled, “I’m feeling a lot of things about you right now.”</p><p>I don’t know what expression I used, but Alfred sat back and didn’t reply with an equally threatening comment.</p><p>“You ain’t gonna do nothing.” Natalie snorted.</p><p>My head turned to her, “You ever injected meth?”</p><p>“Yeah?” She scoffed.</p><p>“Was it hard pushing the needle under your skin the first time?”</p><p>“I mean, I guess a little, yeah.”</p><p>“Ever injected someone else?”</p><p>“No.” She shook her head.</p><p>“Wanna know what it’s like to stab someone with something besides a needle? Something that’s not designed for the task?” I growled at her.</p><p>All of the kid’s eyes grew wide again and they all looked to Andrew. He wore his own worried expression, but I wasn’t threatening or taunting. I was just making a point. They didn’t know me from Adam and didn’t have the first clue of what I was or wasn’t going to do. Because until a little over a year prior, I hadn’t known what I was capable of in a moment of passion. But I did know what it was like to stab someone.</p><p>Stab someone so deeply and thoroughly I felt hot blood gush up around my fist. The way fresh blood is both slick enough to make you nearly lose your grip on the weapon, but also sticky enough that you feel you will never wash it off.</p><p>“I think we should all calm down.” Andrew held his hands up in what I guess he assumed was a placating gesture, “Why don’t we take a break and collect ourselves, then continue.”</p><p>I rolled my eyes and stood up. I wasn’t going to walk out and leave before Andrew dismissed us. The last thing I needed was for Andrew to tell Nonno or the doctors I ditched group. But I wasn’t going to <em>collect myself</em> in front of the others. So, I walked directly outside, found my spot on the planter, and pulled out a cigarette. Soon I had one lit and was puffing away.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger warning: Eating disorders. Specifically, Anorexia.</p><p>Though, I <em>did</em> include this in the tags so I would think no one here minds too much. *shrugs*</p><p>Also, low-key internalized homophobia. Not too bad, but it's still there. That's <em>not</em></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Smoking had become a habit after Toni’s death. I lie to myself, but I wasn’t lying about not using drugs and not enjoying alcohol that much. So, I decided killing myself slowly was the way to go. Cigarettes. That became my method of destruction.</p><p>It didn’t draw as much concern from my Nonno, Feliciano, and the doctors as using drugs and alcohol, even if they don’t approve. I bought my own cigarettes with my paycheck and was legally old enough to smoke, so it was moot for them to say anything anyway. They were more concerned about my mental health than this relatively harmless habit.</p><p>First time I smoked was right after Toni’s funeral. I bummed a cigarette off one of his cousins who had come to attend the services. Inhaling deeply, I choked and coughed until I was red in the face and nearly passed out. But I took another deep drag. And choked and coughed. And another. And another. Each time, the choking and coughing lessened. By the time I had finished the cigarette I was nearly a pro. Pain didn’t deter me from doing what I felt like I needed to do. Smoking was no big deal. </p><p>“Did you really stab someone?”</p><p>I breathed out heavily at the sound of the voice and turned to look at Francis. His clothes were clean like last time, but the way they hung off of him made him look scarecrow-esque.</p><p>“Sod off.” I said calmly, “Now.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Francis, dude.” I laughed angrily and shook my head, “I don’t need your crap today. You and Natalie and Alfred can go screw yourselves.”</p><p>“I didn’t mean to upset you.”</p><p>“Where the heck were you raised that you thought the stunt you pulled wouldn’t upset someone?” I spat.</p><p>“I just asked a question.” He squeaked, “I didn’t know the others would be so rude about it.”</p><p>“You’re in group therapy with a  bunch of meth-heads. Did you expect that they’d be experts at decorum?”</p><p>“I only understood part of that.”</p><p>I let out an amused huff.</p><p>“But I think I probably understood the gist.” He shrugged.</p><p>“Please go away.”</p><p>“Can I have a cigarette?”</p><p>I held the packet out to him without a word. He accepted it and pulled out a single cigarette. He lit it with my lighter, put it carefully back in the pack, and handed it back to me.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Welcome.” I shove the pack back in my pocket.</p><p>“I lie sometimes too.” He said softly.</p><p>“Do you now?” I scoffed.</p><p>“I’ve only smoked meth once.” He said.</p><p>I looked over at him, eyebrows raised in appraisal of his emaciated body and loose clothes.</p><p>“Anorexia.” He looked down, ashamed, “I developed an eating disorder when I was a senior in high school. I thought no one would find out. The meth thing . . .it was just once. I thought it would help me get even skinnier and stay that way. But I didn’t like how it made me feel. So, I only did it once. But anorexia became a full time thing. But smoking meth? A drug problem? That’s cool, right? That’s a <em>guy</em> thing to do, isn’t it? But anorexia? Worrying about your weight, your appearance. That’s for fags and girls, right?”</p><p>“I’m a fag.” I said blandly.</p><p>“I am too.” He nodded.</p><p>I nodded back. Secret brotherhood behavior, that.</p><p>“But it’s one thing to be a fag.” He shrugged, “It’s another to act like one, right? I mean, heaven forbid a guy’s a fag and acts like to too. That’s just double jeopardy right there. Especially if the guy played football in high school.”</p><p>“Why are you telling me this?</p><p>“Because I know what you meant when you said you lie to yourself.” He said, “I’m not really all that smart. I was going to college on a partial scholarship, and not even that great of a college. But I understand and know all about lying to yourself.”</p><p>I just stared at him.</p><p>“I thought I was in control, too.” He nodded slowly, “I just wanted to be healthy and not fat. Which was crazy because I never looked at an overweight person and thought poorly of them. I still can’t. They’re just a person. But me? I’m a piece of shiz, ya know? I’m the worst of the worst and the only way to change that is by being in total control of everything, especially my weight. What kind of person can’t regulate their food intake? That’s fancy doctor talk for what I did. I severely moderated my food intake. Isn’t that fancy?”</p><p>I chuckled bitterly.</p><p>“I’m five foot eleven.” He said, “When I collapsed at home and was taken to the hospital, I weighed ninety-five pounds. It was . . .I didn’t realize at the time . . .um . . .horrifying. That’s why I look like this. I’m finally getting better after months of therapy and being fed through tubes and being able to take a bite or two of food here and there. My body’s finally starting to accept that food should be given to it after I spent so long training it to reject it. I did that to myself. And I still don’t know why. And do you want to know the most messed up thing about all this?”</p><p>“What.” I shrug.</p><p>“I want to do it more!” He said, “I want to feel the pain and pleasure of denying myself. Because I don’t. Ever.”</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>“So . . .I lie to myself.” He said, “I lie to myself  that eating is my new form of control. That I smoked meth and that’s why I am in this whole mess now. Because if I admit the truth, that I was anorexic and had to be hospitalized for moths and disappointed my parents and embarrassed them and cost them thousands of dollars even after insurance, then I’ll be that stupid fag that just wanted to be skinnier than everyone else. And I can’t admit that because I don’t know why I wanted that.”</p><p>“How can you tell the truth about something if you don’t know the reason behind the truth? The sky is blue. Science can explain that. Cats are afraid of dogs. Evolutionary response. I hate myself. Why? What happened to make me think I was completely worthless and needed to be in control and punish myself in the most sadistic way possible? Nothing. That’s fact. That’s a really confusing fact. Lies are better. Lies make sense. So . . . that’s what we do, isn’t it? We lie so that our heads don’t explode and our hearts don’t break. I get why you lie. That’s all I wanted to say.”</p><p>“Well, you sure went the long way about it.” I snarked.</p><p>“And I haven’t even gotten and inch closer to my real truth, have I?”</p><p>I turned to look at him with a frown, “What’s the truth?”</p><p>“I promise you’ll be the first to know if I figure it out.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“So . . .what happened to Toni?” He asked.</p><p>“He died. I didn’t lie about that.”</p><p>“You’re lying about something.” He shrugged, “You said it yourself.”</p><p>“You have no idea, Francis.”</p><p>“So, what is it?” He dropped his cigarette and stomped it out as he looked at me expectantly.</p><p>“Cigarettes don’t help you stay thin.” I commented, “They aren’t really an appetite suppressant. They just dull the taste receptors on your tongue and mouth and make food less desirable.”</p><p>“Still works though, right?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t know.” I shrugged, “I’ve never had an eating disorder.”</p><p>“You don’t look like you eat much.”</p><p>“Well. I’ve always been skinny.” I replied with another shrug, “Cigarettes don’t affect that one way or another.”</p><p>“Are you going to tell us more of Toni’s story when we go back in?”</p><p>“Do you think I have  a choice now?” I snorted, “After the stunt I just pulled if I didn’t do some real good sharing, Andrew’s going to tell the doctors I’m resistant or angry or violent or . . . anything else that would get jotted down on my chart and used against me any time I put a toe out of line. And trust me, I’m two toes away from committal.”</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“It already happened once.”</p><p>“That’s . . .intense.” He whispered, “I mean, I was in the hospital because of anorexia and need for medical help, but they didn’t keep me inpatient for it. They sent me home and forced me to come to things like this and see doctors all the time . . .but I’ve never been signed over to a hospital.”</p><p>“Yup.” I said, “My Nonno’s a real peach.”</p><p>“Why did he commit you?”</p><p>“Because I felt nothing.” I shrugged, “I feel a lot of nothing all the time and it scares him, and my fratello. Plus, I was too out of it to really stop the committal from happening, I guess.”</p><p>Francis chewed his lip and studied me, “Is that the truth?”</p><p>Smart kid.</p><p>“Most of it, yeah.” I nodded.</p><p>“What did you feel nothing about that scared them the most?”</p><p>I sighed, “You may not be the smartest guy, but you ask smart questions. But I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”</p><p>“Okay.” He nodded, “Want to go back inside? Get this over with? Face the jury?”</p><p>“No choice, right?” I dropped my cigarette and stomped it out the way Francis had.</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>I stood and walked beside Francis up the walkway and back into the crappy little community center. Most everyone had retaken their seats, except Alfred. He was grabbing some of the stale donuts and coffee. Andrew was sliding into his seat as Francis and I took our same seats we had been in before my outburst. Francis, who I didn’t hate as much as I had, slid into his folding chair as I slid into mine. When Alfred sat down, Andrew looked at me expectantly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*laughs in absolutely doesn't regret the hugeo cliffhanger* Hope you enjoyed me hearties! I will see you next time! &gt;:)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>FYI, this picks up right after the last flashback. Allen just left the boy's cabin.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Toni and I made a deal the next day, when the sun rose. We were awake when the sun rose because we hadn’t gone to sleep. After Allen left, we were too terrified to close our eyes, both of us for very different reasons. As soon as it was clear that Allen was gone for the night, Toni had slid out of his bed, shuffled over to mine, and slid in next to me. We wrapped our arms around each other and wept openly as we waited for light. We didn’t dare turn on the light in the babin because that would signal we were awake and someone might come to check on us. And that someone might be Allen.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We just won’t tell anyone, right?” Toni sniffled. His voice was desperate as he looked at me in the early morning light.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I nodded.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It just . . .happened . . .and we can forget it, right?” Toni said.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m so scared, Toni.” I replied.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I know.” Toni shook his head and hugged me tight.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We didn’t care that someone might enter our cabin and see us in my bed together, holding each other.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m scared too.” Toni nodded, forehead brushing against mine with the movement, “But we’ll just act like it never happened. We won’t tell anyone. Okay? Will that be the best, do you think?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We should tell someone, you . . .”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No.” Toni cut me off, “It won’t help. Not now. I need to think, you need to think. If we tell someone it’ll be crazy, Lovi. You don’t even know what they might do! They might go right to Allen and tell him and he’ll come back and-”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Okay, Toni.” I interjected and squeezed Toni tightly. I didn’t want Allen to come back and be angry, “We won’t tell anyone, I promise.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry.” Toni sobbed, “I shouldn’t ask you to do that but . . .”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s okay.” I kissed Toni’s forehead in a delicate, comforting gesture I had no idea how I learned at that age, “We’ll just keep it out secret.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So, two boys laid in bed until it was obvious they had to leave their cabin, take a shower, and go to breakfast. If they weren’t at breakfast someone would come looking for them. That someone might be Allen. Even then, they were already under Allen’s thumb. They weren’t aware of it at the time. It would be a long while until they realized exactly how far Allen’s influence would stretch.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But we showered in silence, the last two to leave, then changed in our cabin and, exhausted in every way, went to breakfast. Allen was seated at the camp leader’s table lie always and would occasionally glance at our table, but not in a lingering, conspicuous way. Toni and I ate in silence, heads down, not even speaking to each other, let alone anyone else, for the entire meal. However, somehow, we both knew to eat quickly and not be the last two to leave the dining hall again. Allen would have us alone if we did.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For the rest of the day, we were on eggshells. We never ventured from our activities and the other boys and counselors, always making sure we weren’t alone. We walked with the other boys, or a counselor, anywhere we went, we kept the schedule created for us, and didn’t deviate from it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When the evening campfire and sing-a-long came and hot dogs and marshmallows were roasted, both of us had begun to settle into the routine of keeping our secret and pretending it never happened. Though tired, we were able to laugh when jokes were told, eat food, and be somewhat social.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When we walked back to our cabin that night, making sure to walk with other boys, we were on eggshells again. Once inside, I felt my fear grow and Toni was so nervous he couldn’t stand still. Together, we closed and latched all the windows, not caring if it would keep any cool breezes out. Then, Toni got me to help him push his head in front of the door as a barrier in case Allen tried to come back. That night, both of us slept on that bed as it rested against the door.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Everytime the wind blew or a board creaked or a cricket chirped or a twig broke we both started awake. But Allen never came to the cabin to try and pry the door open, to do what he had done the night before. This went on for two weeks until we started to feel safe again. Not that we felt entirely safe, but we began to suspect Allen was too afraid to try the same thing again with the same boy, or any boy for that matter. He had gotten lucky picking the target he’d selected. The secret would be taken to the grave if he just kept his head down.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But that’s the thing, isn’t it?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Getting away with something once just emboldens a person.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Makes their efforts more brazen</em>
</p><p>
  <em>After a few weeks of nothing happening, other than standard camp activities, Toni and I began to believe we were once again safe. So, we struck up our old habits and outlines once again. Ditching swim practice to swim at Long Beach, not joining in on the crafts and other boring activities the counselors loved to schedule.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We stopped pushing the bed in front of the door, though we continued to sleep in the same bed and never opened the cabin windows at night. For a week, following their initial routine, nothing bad happened. Allen never returned. It was almost like it never happened. Almost like it could be forgotten.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And when a victim forgets how brutally they were victimized, allows themselves to believe it never happened . . .it does. And Allen was not so discreet about it. The next time Allen attacked, he did it at Long Beach. When we ran out of the water, laughing, screaming, just being boys, we found Allen by that tree, smoking a cigarette, standing in the way of the piles of clothes we left.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One boy was frozen in fear, just like the first time, while the other whimpered and cried as Allen did what Allen was prone to do. A boy was assaulted for the second time while the other was once again too afraid to protect his friend. Too afraid to run for help. So, one boy was forced to stand there nude, refused his clothing, as the other was thrown to the ground and assaulted. Allen took out his frustration and anger at the boys having avoided him for so long. And it was brutal. For both boys.</em>
</p><p>I sat back in my chair and swallowed hard. Story time was over. I shared enough about myself and Toni. And Allen. Everyone in the circle was staring at me, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, on the edge of their seats. I had nothing else to tell them. I was tired. That wasn’t a lie.</p><p>“Lovino?” Andrew spoke softly.</p><p>“Is group over.”</p><p>He just frowned at me.</p><p>“Is <em>that</em> why you have depression and anxiety?” Natalie asked suddenly, “Because you were too scared to help Toni so you feel like it’s all your fault because you didn’t get another counselor or grab a rock and bash Allen’s brains in?”</p><p>“Yeah man.” Alfred nodded, “If I was standing there and someone had done that to my boy, I would have stabbed the sucker to death.”</p><p>“Nobody’s perfect. I sgroup over now?” I said.</p><p>Andrew frowned deeply but nodded at me. I rose from my seat and walked through the circle towards the door again. Francis stood quickly as I passed. I pulled my cigarettes out of my pocket and threw them at his feet.</p><p>“Don’t follow me.” I warned him</p>
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